The face appeared, scowled ferociously, then the right arm shot out. The automatic in the hand came down, sighting on Clement’s climbing figure. Clement shut his eyes and felt sick. He was a mark that could scarcely be missed.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes.
Siwash’s face was turned away from him; he appeared to be arguing vehemently with some one behind him in the attic. As Clement looked, a long, thin arm with an incredibly bony hand stretched itself past Siwash’s shoulder, and clutched avidly at the automatic pistol. Clement did not waste time then. He was up the remainder of the cliff as fast as his best climbing could take him. He was through the builder’s yard at a run, though a man yelled at him to know his business.... And in a near street he caught a taxi and went to the Château Frontenac as rapidly as petrol could carry him.
As he went into the lobby he was stopped by the porter. “We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Seadon,” the man said. “Looking for you everywhere. A lady was asking for you.”
“A lady!” cried Clement, stopping in his stride. “What lady?”
“Oh, the one that left this morning,” said the porter.
“The one that went this morning?” echoed Clement stupidly.
“Yes, the one that left for Montreal.”